


Upside Down Life and the Feeling Without

by onepercent



Series: Silence [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, but like, meaningful fluff, small mentions of suicide, the premise of angst but really just fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6039421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are blind for all but each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's quite peaceful, actually. 

There's no more sense of questioning or fear in his mind. The thoughts made sluggish by his son's death speed up again, and their footsteps padding along the edges of his brain quicken to where eventually, after seconds or centuries, they run together in a continuous, pleasant buzz. Just like when he was younger. 

He opens his eyes. It's nothing like he imagined. No pearly white gates. No Angels welcoming him with open arms, flapping gargantuan wings and strumming harps with extra sets of hands. No God there to pass judgement. Just serenity, calm and flowing and gentle on his overworked brow. 

He can't really...see anything, per se, but there are certain–what's the word? Auras? About things. He is lying on grass, he knows, staring up at what he presumes to be sky. Is it sky? He follows the line of questioning no further, as he senses he will confuse himself–and he is not an easily confused man. 

He sits up languidly, effortlessly. No more dull, rumbling pain rippling between the sharp blades on the back of his shoulders from one too many years of staying up late drafting emails, no more popping of his snake of a spine as it twists–he could get used to this whole being dead thing. 

Dead. Oh, right.

He doesn't quite remember the circumstances of his death. He knows he has left a woman behind–Eliza, or Lizzie, as the name clinks like a champagne flute into his brain–that he loved very much. He has left behind children, and a sister-in-law. A dog. A legacy. 

He laments his lack of memory as he stands up breezily. There is a figure in the distance. It does not get closer, but they come together eventually. The world and the way it works is starting to fuck with his brain now, honestly. 

"John, John," he mutters, pulling the figure into a burning hug. His fingers dig into the figure's hair, springing a tight coil around his index and nimble thumb. They laugh and embrace for too long, crying into each other's necks. Tears come like rain in the summer, bright and offbeat. He says nothing for fear he will say something unable to capture the thoughts ricocheting between their oiled minds. They are comforted in each other's misty aura in this strange world of upside down life and the feeling without it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed a lot of people write Alexander as angular and John as his softer counterpart, and while I agree with that mentally, physically I think otherwise. In this "universe" (for lack of better word to call what's going on in this series), John is in the Navy for however many years with Alexander, but becomes a paramedic at a local hospital while Alexander becomes a writer. John would have to stay fit for his profession, but Alexander surely might let a little more meat settle into his bones. Not fat or overweight, but I feel like John might tease him about the little bit of extra fat on his tummy that John never had. I tried to write them this way distinctively, so hopefully you can see that. Also, John's death kind of happened to a good friend of mine. Thankfully, he didn't die and currently just has some mental damage (but nothing horribly severe like it was right afterwards).

They pull back from their embrace eventually. They kiss quickly, like an afterthought–they are best friends before they are lovers, of course. Alexander leans forward to lean his forehead against his husband's. While Eliza always focused on his freckles, calling them constellations to brighten up the dark world they lived in, Alexander always loved his eyes more. Green smeared by gold, sharp, cat-like. Piercing and intelligent and angry. Alexander wishes his big, blurry-shadow black irises matched in intensity. 

"I love you," John says, breaking the buzz of reunion. "I'm so glad you're here."

"No me diga," Alexander says sarcastically, fake surprise slimy on his tongue. 

"But is that bad though?" John asks, a white smile still carving through his dimpled cheeks. "That I'm glad you're dead?"

"I don't know, I don't know," Alexander replies. He doesn't care. He drags a dull fingernail down John's sharp cheekbone. "It's...I expected a chorus of Angels."

John laughs, firecracker light and aromatic, black coffee that clears the smell of the teary mood. "So did I."

He sighs happily with John's chin resting in his hair. He turns his head to look further at the weird setting. It has started to take shape of vague blocks that might be his desk, or the couch crammed in the corner where not enough unsavory nights were spent alive. 

"So how'd you die?" John does not take his hands away from Alexander's smooth, curved waist. 

Alexander grins into John's tan a bit guiltily. "I was hoping you could tell me that. I don't remember a lot."

"How would I know?" John questions genuinely, malice-free. 

"I assumed that you'd be able to–"

"I can't see anything from the living," John admits. "That's why I– I thought Eliza might be with you. Die together or some sentimental bullshit like that."

"Because I wasn't sentimental with you at all. Not like we were husbands or anything. Or anything." 

"Well of course not," John says. "I...How did I go?"

Alexander takes a few moments to process the question, to reach into his limited memory to fetch the answer. He pauses, a moment of silence for...he doesn't really know. John isn't gone anymore, so why does he wait? This Heaven proves itself stranger and stranger to Alexander with each thought that flies down his runway of a brain–he was never uncertain alive. Maybe this is like a better version of him, a perfect copy (he would be the last on earth to admit that he was less than flawless–but he supposes he isn't on earth anymore, right?) 

"It was suicide, of sorts," Alexander flings out darts from his words. "You. You. You tried to hang yourself, but I found you, and I took you to the hospital, and you had brain damage, and you lived, the doctors said you would, and you lived for another almost year, but then you–you started to say such things–it was so scary. I was so scared. It was so scary." 

Alexander realizes that he is crying again. Snowflakes melt down his round red cheeks to his chin where they drip off onto John's caramel smooth skin. 

"So I went senile at twenty-seven," John snorts. Alexander giggles thickly, heavily, like the cream to John's coffee. "That's got to be some kind of record."

"I'm sure."

"Mm."

They kiss again. Deeper, swimming against the pressure–its easier that way. 

Eventually Alexander melts into a cheeky, knowing grin. 

"So, can we have sex here or what?"

John scrunches his face into mock disgust, then breaks a smile, pinching teasingly at Alexander's stomach. "We see each other for the first time in who knows how long since we're both fucking dead, we kiss, and now you want me to screw you."

"Yes. Yes." Alexander buries his nose into the sharp crook between John's neck and shoulder. 

"Mm, I love you, baby." 

"Love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell what my favorite songs are from this chapter? The references are pretty obvious if you ask me.

**Author's Note:**

> My friend said I couldn't write something happy. I said "Watch me, bitch."
> 
> Feedback is eternally welcomed in the form of constructive criticism, praise, ideas for future works you might want to see written, or anything else you could think of.


End file.
